When I arrived at Fitzory town hall, the celebration had been on.
It was a lovely day, just warm and nice. CBD was so quiet that you would doubt that where the crowds in trains (just as sardine in tins) during weekdays were. The quiet city let me feel unaccustomed, as seeing a pale person lack of viability, the viability brought by blood steams. However, the silence just fit Fitzory town. One or two persons were walking along the lanes (I asked two men for the way to the town hall. They were rambling around, pushing a baby carriage. They looked so serene and satisfied, just like a couple), having coffee under the sun. Little delicate red petals smoothed out at the green lace fences of a window. Far away, bougainvillea forced a big piece of magenta and dark green (but shining like oil) on the wall. All these produced an illusion of being in a quiet European town, maybe Spanish, maybe Italian.
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